a quicksilver interval lodestar tonic

	It was a quicksilver interval covering fifty-plus thousand miles behind the wheel alone, alone & not, veering between rounds of advice & instigation from altered egos scrounging for a lodestar tonic. 

For instance: 

	A two-lane mountain road cut through a dense hippy brume to arrive at a wooden outpost. The venue suggested we back-in-park for load-in in case there's a need to leave in a hurry, explaining it's a biker bar & sometimes things get bikery. 

On a pole near the entrance, a Xeroxed poster, with a picture of a wiener dog smiling like it hears a can of dog food being opened, explains the dog has been assassinated, shot in the head, & they're looking for who did it. 

A small coterie of club vests arrived with dates. Tensions were challenged briefly, but stayed seated as we packed up to head downhill towards the desert.

A year later, the bar burned to the forest floor. 

	A gamey motel desk clerk with scratches on their face & neck & holding a cat warned, "Don't pet the cat. It scratches.” 

A casino sushi boat happy hour turned out to be a fixed regatta of mostly rice. 

	It was hot for spring when we arrived in a parochial basin for an afternoon load-in. Doors were locked. We left a phone message with the promoter. To kill time, a nondescript bar around the corner offered A/C & a doorman wearing a Gap logo tee repurposed with other letters to write out “God Answers Prayers.”